


put your mouth where your money is

by guiltylights



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: A lot of body rolls and hip gyrations, Established Relationship, Lap Dances, M/M, Possessive!Iwa, Probably Inaccurate Portrayal on how stripping and strip clubs actually work, Stripper!Oikawa, Strippers & Strip Clubs, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 00:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12179673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltylights/pseuds/guiltylights
Summary: Oikawa sinks down to the floor, running his hands down his lean, lithe torso, now wearing only a thin white tank top that clings to every muscle. His hoodie is half off his shoulders. Oikawa’s right in the centre of the stage now, only a few metres away from where Iwaizumi is sitting, so Iwaizumi can clearly see the line of Oikawa’s arms, muscular and glistening faintly with sweat underneath the flashing lights. For all his pretty face, Oikawa’s body betrays the airy delicate image he often tries to portray. Oikawa’s head is thrown back up to the ceiling, and his eyes are closed as he rolls his hips upwards to the music. He licks his lips once, a quick roll of pink tongue over pinker lips.Iwaizumi’s breath gets caught in his throat, before it comes rushing out in an explosive breath. Jesus Christ, this guy is going to be the death of him.





	put your mouth where your money is

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [antikytheras](https://archiveofourown.%20org/users/antikytheras) wholeheartedly for this, because he was the one who resulted in me going on an iwaoi fic binge, which then in turn culminated to this...thing. 
> 
> I can't believe this. My first iwaoi fic, and it's this pseudo-sin trashcan. I'd like you guys to know that this fic was only born because I thought of the title first, thought it was really clever, and thus proceeded to churn out a suitable plot that suited the title. Let it be known that I have never written anything like this before.

The pulse of the club is dark and hot.

Electronic bass thuds beneath the flashing strobe lights, pumping and rhythmic, in time to the grinding of the people on the platform that served as a stage. Some latest hit that’s been on the radio recently, remixed to a faster beat, that Iwaizumi doesn’t really care about. Alcohol sloshes in cups, diamond-clear, as waitresses in bikinis mill about pouring drinks. Iwaizumi signals for another drink, and only slightly grimaces when he palms off the exorbitant fee for it to the pretty, smiling, scantily clad waitress.

"I can’t believe we’re paying out of our asses for this shit,” Matsukawa grumbles, peering into his own half-finished cup with a look of dissatisfaction. “This whisky isn’t even fucking good.”

Hanamaki slaps Matsukawa on the shoulder. “You’re not paying for the drinks, man. You’re paying for the experience. The _experience_!” For emphasis, he tilts back his own cup and downs the amber liquid in it in one shot. Slamming the cup down on the sticky table in front of them, he wipes his mouth off with the back of one hand.

A bead of liquid runs down the side of the cup, vivid along the sharp-cut edges of the clear glass. Iwaizumi fixes his gaze on it for a moment.

“What experience?” Iwaizumi asks, raising his eyebrow. He has to raise his voice over the pounding music. “The main event hasn’t even started yet.”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki hoot with laughter. “Of course, of course. _You_ would know, right?” Hanamaki says, leering.

Iwaizumi’s scowl is apparent even with the flashing lights, which shift over his skin in a mass of pinks, purples, greens and blues. “Shut up.”

Right on cue, however, the sound turns down, and the lights dim.

Iwaizumi feels anticipation curl tight and low in his gut. He unconsciously leans forward, towards where the stage is. Next to him, Matsukawa and Hanamaki smirk at each other knowingly.

The original dancers on stage had long since cleared off, and the stage is dark and empty - though ever since when, Iwaizumi doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He isn’t here for them tonight. He never is.

A voice speaks out overhead. “Welcoming our main star for tonight, Grand King!”

Bright spotlights beam onto the stage, right at the end where the curtains are, and Oikawa Tooru takes the stage.

Around them, the women seated around the stage scream, clearly anticipating this event. Iwaizumi thinks he hears hollers from even guys – along with some wolf-whistles thrown into the mix. Oikawa’s not wearing anything special – just low-slung jeans, with a zip-up hoodie and a baseball cap pulled down low. But those hollering are regulars, and they know what’s going to happen next – it’s not the clothes that matter.

Iwaizumi glowers at the whistles’ general direction. Slowly, the noise dies down, as Oikawa remains perfectly motionless on stage, posed in a dance move, his eyes shaded by his cap. The entire strip club seems to hold its breath in anticipation.

The music starts, and Oikawa’s hand flies up as he snaps his fingers. Iwaizumi recognises the song - it’s an old one, but gold, and it had been popular back during its first release. Iwaizumi remembers first listening to it when it first came out – and remembers listening to it in their apartment too, when Oikawa would put his music on shuffle and this song would come on. Oikawa always liked to sing along. The lyrics are about attention, about the singer commandeering notice the moment they step into a room.

Iwaizumi snorts a bit in spite of himself. _Figures he would choose this._

But any thought Iwaizumi has about Oikawa and their domestic life soon flies out of the window as Oikawa gets to moving. Oikawa moves on stage like he belongs there, hips gyrating, body twisting, torso rolling in sinuous motions that Iwaizumi didn’t think would be possible. Iwaizumi used to think that stripping was a stiff, dirty affair – with sticky sweat and cheap, jerky movements that he would end up sneering at, unimpressed – but the way Oikawa does it made it look like a kind of art, a form of dance that Iwaizumi could never get tired of.

At the flow of the beat before the pre-chorus, Oikawa catches hold of the zipper of his hoodie. The hollers of the crowd, which had been steadily growing, grow even louder. Oikawa winks at the audience, and at the drop of the beat, throws open his hoodie with a flourish.

Oikawa sinks down to the floor, running his hands down his lean, lithe torso, now wearing only a thin white tank top that clings to every muscle. His hoodie is half off his shoulders. Oikawa’s right in the centre of the stage now, only a few metres away from where Iwaizumi is sitting, so Iwaizumi can clearly see the line of Oikawa’s arms, muscular and glistening faintly with sweat underneath the flashing lights. For all his pretty face, Oikawa’s body betrays the airy delicate image he often tries to portray. Oikawa’s head is thrown back up to the ceiling, and his eyes are closed as he rolls his hips upwards to the music. He licks his lips once, a quick roll of pink tongue over pinker lips.   

Iwaizumi’s breath gets caught in his throat, before it comes rushing out in an explosive breath. Jesus Christ, this guy is going to be the death of him.

By now, people have already begun flinging money onto the stage, crisp bills of twenty, fifty (Iwaizumi spots someone flinging _hundreds_ ) fluttering in the air around Oikawa as he body rolls his way back up to a standing position, flashing smirks in people’s directions as thanks for the cash. Spinning, Oikawa begins scooping up the money as he dances, shedding his hoodie and flinging it into a horde of ladies, who begin squealing excitedly. He does this with his baseball cap as well, this time throwing it at a cluster of guys, one of whom catches it whilst being vaguely confused and flustered.

Oikawa winks at him, and holds steady eye contact as he runs a hand across the hem of his shirt, lifting it up just briefly to show off his abs. Iwaizumi catches a flash of warm skin, and suddenly the temperature of the room seems too hot.

Hanamaki groans a little beside him. Iwaizumi jumps a little; he’s all but forgotten that his friends are there. “Jesus Christ, Iwaizumi, the boy’s only taken off his outerwear and already you’re here panting after him like a dog.”    

Iwaizumi glares hard at Hanamaki. “I am not a dog!” He snaps.

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow. “You’re not denying the panting.”

Growling, Iwaizumi turns his focus back to Oikawa, who seems to have turned his focus back more to dancing, popping and locking in ways that betray years of experience. Except that in between normal dance moves, his body would move in ways that leave Iwaizumi’s mouth feeling dry – Oikawa would do a backflip and drop to the floor, only to thrust and roll his hips into the stage as he makes his way back up. He would slide his way across the stage to the front of a bunch of hollering fans – only to run his hand down his chest, down his legs, near his crotch, in a way that is completely different from the seemingly-innocent smile he has on his face as he does so.

The Grand King has the club patrons eating out of his hand – they stuff bills into the waistband of his jeans, dragging hands across his waist, his hips, his chest.

Iwaizumi frowns a little. His eyes catches on the way a particular lady’s manicured nails pull themselves especially slowly across Oikawa’s tank top, at the space where his abs are, as though savouring something forbidden – and something ugly rears its head somewhere in Iwaizumi’s stomach, hissing and dark. The lady’s nails gleam blood red in the pulsing lights. Iwaizumi’s fists clench on the tabletop, involuntarily.

Iwaizumi watches as Oikawa laughs airily, the sound blending in with the music of the song’s third verse just after the chorus – how has it only been a minute? – and grabs that woman’s hand, dragging it away from his torso. Iwaizumi breathes a minute sigh of relief – only to watch as Oikawa takes the hand and slips it underneath his tank top instead, grinding upwards as the woman squeals so that she can feel every movement of his abs. The ugly emotion in the pit of Iwaizumi’s stomach rises up again, possessive.

The current song ends, and Oikawa slides away from the lady smoothly – but not before she jams more money into the waistband of his jeans.

Matsukawa rolls his eyes. “It’s part of his job, dude.”

A new song starts up, and the beat of the new song is darkly suggestive, cocky – and judging from the way Oikawa’s lips pull up, exactly what he wants.

Iwaizumi frowns, and forces his hands to loosen and relax. He leans back, and folds his arms. “I know that.” _Still._

Oikawa’s not looked his way the entire time so far, despite knowing that he would be here, despite the fact that Iwaizumi, Hanamaki and Matsukawa are sitting directly in front of the stage. They’re impossible not to spot.

At this point, Oikawa’s decided that he’s had enough of games, and promptly strips off his jeans.

The money initially tucked into the waistband of his jeans now flutters onto the stage floor as Oikawa tosses the offending article over his shoulder to somewhere behind him, grinning cockily. Iwaizumi nearly chokes on his mouthful of alcohol. Oikawa’s wearing briefs that don’t leave much to the imagination, and the crowd goes _wild._ Over their catcalls, the thump of the music beats loud and fast, but it doesn’t quite drown out the white noise buzzing in Iwaizumi’s ears.

Oikawa pumps his chest twice, to the beat, stretching his hand up to the lights, and Iwaizumi swallows once, swallows twice. Oikawa drops into a squat, and Iwaizumi’s eyes trail over the flexing of Oikawa’s pale thighs. He thinks about leaving marks there, bruises that will last for days for everybody to see. _All eyes on me._

People start flashing money around, waving stacks in the air, and Oikawa tilts his head to the side thoughtfully, wearing a smile. He catches the eye of a guy sitting at stage left, who is holding up a stack of bills and smirking. With easy, predatory grace, Oikawa hops and slides off the stage and makes his way over to the guy, his hips swinging from side to side as he stalks forward.

The guys leans back as Oikawa drops to his knees in front of him, crawling until he reaches him, where he pulls himself up using the man’s knees as support. Oikawa drags hands up the man’s torso to lock themselves on either side of the man’s head, and with his hands braced on the backrest of the chair, Oikawa proceeds to give a lap dance to the guy, rolling his hips in the air on top of the man’s crotch.

Iwaizumi calls for another drink, and downs it in two burning gulps. As he watches, the guy attempts to make a move on Oikawa, and run a hand up his side – Iwaizumi starts, and nearly gets up, but Oikawa easily pushes his hand away, laughing slightly. But even in the darkness of the club, Iwaizumi can see the coldness in Oikawa’s gaze even as his lips remain fixed. Oikawa leans in to mouth something at the man’s ear – and it seems to work, as the man’s hands remain fixed to his side until Oikawa’s dance is over.

Next, Oikawa saunters up to a girl on the other side of the stage, who’s very clearly having a birthday, judging from the sparkly crown perched on top of her head and the mound of wrapping paper sitting on the table next to her. With a wink, Oikawa easily accepts the money being stuffed into the waistband of his briefs – and hoists the lady up into his arms, carrying her like she’s nothing more than air.

The birthday girl eagerly wraps her legs around Oikawa’s torso, but Oikawa merely carries her to the stage and gently lays her down on the floor – before kneeling over her and thrusting into the air on top of her. Oikawa runs a hand through his hair, grinning down at her as he does so, before leaning forward, deliberately close. The woman seems to hold her breath, as Oikawa very nearly touches foreheads with her. It almost looks like Oikawa’s going to kiss her. His arms are braced on only one side of the woman’s head, so Iwaizumi has a clear view as Oikawa deliberately, purposefully, licks his lips in a slow hot roll of teeth-lips-tongue.

He pushes off her then, however, and carries her back down to where she sits, pink-cheeked and grinning. Iwaizumi sips his alcohol, biding his time, and finally – after what seems like forever, but has only been minutes – Oikawa lands his gaze on him.

The smirk on Oikawa’s face grows wider, more real. Hanamaki and Matsukawa deliberately scoot over to give Iwaizumi more room as Oikawa heads straight for him, his steps keeping in time with the music. Iwaizumi sets his glass aside. He thinks he hears confused murmuring – he certainly hadn’t flashed any money, nor did he seem too keen on attention in any way, but Iwaizumi ignores them. He’s only got eyes for Oikawa.

Oikawa drops into his lap, and Iwaizumi’s hands close around his waist automatically.

A shudder rolls through Oikawa, like the heat of Iwaizumi’s hands alone does something to him, and instinctively Iwaizumi tightens his grip. Oikawa’s arms come up to loop around Iwaizumi’s neck, and his mouth goes to Iwaizumi’s ear.

“Iwa-chan,” he murmurs, a little breathlessly, probably exertion from his dancing, and Iwaizumi can feel Oikawa’s hot breath blow wet across the shell of his ear. He does not flinch. “Are you enjoying the show so far?”

 _All eyes on me._ “Not at all,” Iwaizumi growls, only half-lying. “Don’t think I didn’t know that you were deliberately ignoring me, you little shit.”

That surprises Oikawa, who throws his head back and laughs. “Mean, Iwa-chan!” He says. “I have a job to do, you know?”

As if to emphasise the nature of his job, Oikawa rolls his hips smoothly on Iwaizumi’s lap, causing Iwaizumi to jolt a little. “Oi,” he growls, a little huskily.

“Hmm?” Oikawa asks, all batting eyelashes and false innocence, like he doesn’t know precisely what he’s doing. He smells intoxicating. Iwaizumi leans forward without thinking, pressing himself closer to the lapful of stripper in front of him that has damn well ruined his life – only to have Oikawa lean back, laughing.

Iwaizumi growls. “Wha–”

In one smooth motion, Oikawa pulls off his tank top, and throws it on the floor.

He’s bare-chested now, body-rolling right on Iwaizumi’s lap as if nobody’s watching. The hollering from the club crowd is all but insignificant noise in his ears; all Iwaizumi can see is Oikawa’s face, with his stupid pretty eyes and stupid smiling mouth – with his lips, that as Iwaizumi watches Oikawa swipes over with a wet tongue, lips that Iwaizumi wants to _kiss_ , and Oikawa’s body, all smooth and pale and slick with sweat in his arms; all Iwaizumi can feel is the movement of Oikawa on top of him, skin on skin where it can reach and skin on fabric where it can’t, Oikawa’s arms around his neck, Oikawa’s breath in his ear.

Iwaizumi’s eyes catches on, drags on a bead of sweat rolling down over Oikawa’s sharp collarbones, and he’s reminded of the moment just minutes before – which feels like a lifetime ago, now – of Hanamaki’s cup, of amber liquid trailing over sharp-cut glass.

Without thinking, Iwaizumi catches his lips on that bead of sweat, and follows it down.

Oikawa bucks slightly underneath him, caught off guard, and only Iwaizumi can hear the soft gasp that slips out between his teeth. _All eyes on me._ Iwaizumi grins smugly into Oikawa’s skin – Oikawa might perform for everyone, but Iwaizumi’s the only one who’s allowed to touch him like this, who _has_ touched him like this, who knows him as intimately as this. _All eyes on me._ Iwaizumi skims his hands up the bare sides of Oikawa’s torso, over his forearms, and feels him shudder. Iwaizumi surges up, and kisses Oikawa, and savours the taste as Oikawa reciprocates. _Keep your eyes on me._

Oikawa breaks the kiss, to drag his mouth along Iwaizumi’s jaw, nipping with his teeth. The current song is going to end soon. Iwaizumi can feel Oikawa mouthing along to the lyrics on his skin; _follow me, show me what you can do._

“How much for a private show?” Iwaizumi growls, huskily.

Oikawa pulls back. His eyes are bright.

“For you, Iwa-chan?” He leans in close again, to breathe right into Iwaizumi’s ear. “Hmm, I don’t know, how much are you willing to pay?”

Iwaizumi swallows.

“Anything.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no idea how strip clubs work. All of my information is a result of ten-minute google searches, and videos of Channing Tatum in Magic Mike. So if there's any inaccuracies, please forgive. (If they're particularly grievous, point it out to me and I'll change it!)
> 
> The second song that Oikawa strips to is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVhJ_A8XUgc)
> 
> Other songs listened to in the making of this sin are: Lady Marmalade (by Christina Aguilera, Lil' Kim, Mya, Pink), For Your Entertainment (by Adam Lambert), Oops I Did It Again, Toxic (both by Britney Spears). Make of this information what you will.
> 
> If you liked this, let me know! It'd make my day :)


End file.
